I first meet Demyx at the supermarket, on another Wednesday afternoon. I've just paid for more nappies, a pack of rolls and eight sausages, and I happen to glance behind me to see a cute guy about my age grinning at the bemused cashier as she rings through load after loaf of cheap sliced bread.
"It's for the soup kitchen," he says, pulling handfuls of munny from the pockets of his worn, low slung jeans. "You don't even want to know how quickly hobos can get through bread." He counts out coins and gems as I stare, unnoticed, the bread still beeping past the scanner. "Two hundred munny ought to cover this, right? Cheers, Ma'am." Oblivious to the scowls of the cashier, the hands over a lump of loose change, stuffing the loaves into plastic bags as she counts it all out again.
Realising that I've been enraptured for a second by his soft cheeks and bright eyes, I flush heavily and try to make a beeline for the door: but as I'm turning he says in the same light voice: "Hey, you mind giving me a hand? I could do this in half the time with your help."
My guts curl quite suddenly as my mind descends into the gutter. I reply; "Sure," and reach over for a loaf, shoving it into another bag. For once I'm glad my hair's still so long, because this way it covers my red face.
"Hey!" The boy exclaims, looking at my chest. "Didn't notice the baby there! She's cute, isn't she? Is she yours?" He leans right over to say hello to Larxene, holding his finger out to be grabbed and babbling happily at her.
"Yeah, she's seven months old," I tell him, still working on the bread. "And her name's Larxene."
"Larxene!" The boy grins more widely, tipping his head forward so Larxene can grab onto his half-Mohawk hair. I notice each individual strand of brown-blonde hair; although the spiky strip down the middle is caked with gel to keep it standing up, the hair on the sides of his head look so soft and fluffy that I almost want to touch it. This idle thought makes me realise how much I miss people. This is weird, because I always shunned them, expended huge amounts of energy pushing them away. Now I am alone, and I want them back. "I'm Demyx," Halfhawk boy is cooing as Larxene chews on his hair. "What's your Dad's name, eh?"
"I'm Marluxia," I say. "Marluxia Braefern."
He glances up at me, all big turquoise eyes and perfect skin. And I am still putting bread in bags, even though he stopped ages ago.
"That's quite a name."
"Yeah, I know."
This makes Demyx grin again. Everything makes him grin. Finally he extracts himself from Larxene's firm grasp, tossing the bagged bread back into his trolley while he continues "I gotta run this up to Rising Falls now. You wanna come with? Larxene can have a ride in the trolley."
What can I say? He's adorable. I want to steal more seconds with him so that I can admire the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. And everything else.
"Sure, but she's kind of tied in." I gesture to Larxene's shirt-saddle, tucked up inside my jacket. "And she'd probably get cold if I took her out."
"You can ride in the trolley too," Demyx jokes as we make our way out of the shop. I think to myself, have I just picked up a cute guy? Or has he just picked up me? "You're new here, right?" He asks once we're back out in the cold, snowflakey air, noticing that my eyes have gravitated to the hollow bastion for which the town is named. "Just imagine what she was like before the attack."
"Attack?"
"Well, yeah, Hollow Bastion wasn't always all in pieces, was it?" Demyx's face suddenly becomes morose, and he shivers conspicuously. "I was still a kid when it happened, but I remember most of it. They blew up half the town. We had to camp out in the castle for a long time before they managed to salvage parts of the town."
"I hadn't heard about that," I admit, not sure what else I can say. Demyx shrugs understandingly; at the same time it's like he pushes all of those memories away, because his step becomes light again and the smile returns, if slowly, to his face.
"People don't like to talk about it." Then we walk in silence for a few minutes, turning off into the still-damaged parts of town, where he says "We haven't got much help from outside. Nobody wants to live here, do they, because they don't think it's safe. So we had to make do with what we could salvage from the wreckage, really." Then he rather unsubtly changes the subject. "Where are you from?"
"A lot of places," I say evasively. Honestly, I don't really feel like I'm from anywhere, I've moved around so much.
"Oh," says Demyx, nodding sagely. "You're one of those people. I wouldn't have chosen Hollow Bastion to set up shop, though. I guess the rent's cheap." The he turns another corner and announces proudly: "Here we are!"
The soup kitchen stands out primarily because it's the only shop on Rising Falls that isn't gutted and empty; it's also a hive of activity, so full inside that people are milling around in the snow, polystyrene cups in their hands. What strikes me is the huge variety of people in the front drive, from tramps to builders to businessmen, all chatting as they drink steaming portions of soup.
"Do you just serve anybody here?" I ask as Demyx yells "Coming through! Coming through! Delivery for one Missus Aqua Victoria Seymour!"
A youthful woman with shocking blue hair appears at the door.
"I told you not to use my full name, Demyx!" But she welcomes him in too, saying "Who's this? And who's this?" when she sees me and Larxene. Demyx introduces us, then briefly recounts his journey to the shop, paying particular attention to the part where Larxene chewed on his precious hair. I'm about to tell him that he didn't seem to mind in the slightest at the time, but this is the moment when Larxene lets out the ear-drum shattering scream that signifies that she wants to be fed. Except I thought I was going to be home ten minutes ago and didn't bring any milk with me. I desperately put my finger in her mouth, but that only placates her until she realises that it isn't producing any milk, whereupon she starts wailing again.
"Sorry," I say several times, feeling my face heat up again, this time from embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting to be out this long, I'll just-"
The worst thing about having a publically crying baby is feeling like a failure as a parent to provide for your child. Larxene is crying and she shouldn't be crying and I am wholly responsible for stopping her crying and I can't. "I'm sorry," I say again, stroking her hair and bouncing her in her coccoon of a carrier in an attempt to soothe her, but all to no avail. Then something amazing happens: a woman, tired and baggy with a baby of her own (blissfully asleep), rushes over to comfort Larxene, pulling a dummy out of her bag and wiping it on her sleeve before plugging her in.
"There you go, honey," she says to me, "That should keep her happy for a while." And she moves as if to leave, Aqua running a hand through her blue hair as she thanks the lady.
"But what about-?" I begin to ask. The lady just smiles, waving her hand as she says; "Keep it". This kindness surprises me. I am not used to kindness.
"I should still go," I tell Demyx. "If I don't feed Larxene soon she'll probably start breaking glasses."
Demyx laughs, at my joke. "Sure thing, Marlu… Marly. Come visit, okay? I live here right now, so you know where to find me." He hands me a polystyrene cup full of bright orange soup and ushers me back outside where more people are lingering. Then when I glance behind me on my way onto the pavement he looks right at me and winks.
At home, with Larxene fed and playing with her crinkly cat toy (one of Mrs Merryweather's donations), I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, feeling self conscious. My hair is long and ratty, the pink fading to white in places and my mousy roots several inches long. I poke at the bags under my eyes, pull off my unfashionable, too-small clothes.
"What am I going to do?" I ask Larxene, rubbing at my bare, blotchy arms. "He's so cute, and I'm so… me." As usual, Larxene's only answer is meaningless babble, since she's more interested in sitting on her cat than my teenage woes. "I know, I know," I say; "I haven't got a chance. He's probably not even gay." But he did wink at me. And even if nothing becomes of this meeting, even if I never go back to the soup kitchen, the flutter in my chest grounds me somehow: I've just been Larxene's parent and benefector for so long that I've almost forgotten what it's like to be a sixteen year old. But at the same time, it fills me with such a strange, contradictory emptiness, one that hurts inside as much as my attraction to Demyx feels wonderful, because I've left behind my childhood now and I know that I can't ever go back.
I leave work on Saturday exactly as the shift bell rings, with a view to getting up to the soup kitchen and seeing Demyx again before I have to collect Larxene from the evil babysitter. But what actually happens is I get lost and end up having to backtrack to the high street then only having time to rush to the babysitter's house to get Larxene.
"She's almost started using words," the babysitter tells me as I collect my bag of things; "She said "ma" to me today. So listen out." This sounds like a nice thing to say, but the way she emphasises the words just makes her sound smug; it's no secret, after all, that her own children were prodigies from the day they popped out of her pristine womb. And sure enough, here comes the follow up: "Although my children reached that stage much earlier, of course." I wonder how people even hire her. Maybe it's because, like me, they can't afford any of the nice people.
I tell Larxene that it is time for an adventure and we are going to go on a hunt for a magical soup kitchen, but she prefers sucking on her new dummy to looking out for the blown-in row of shops with its one lively building on the end of the street. Just as I'm beginning to think I dreamt Demyx up, finally I spot the right intersection up ahead. I recognise some of the people outside, but Demyx isn't among them. So I elbow my way inside, using Larxene as an excuse to get out of the cold, and pick out Aqua Victoria Seymour among the people serving soup. I realise while I wait for a chance to talk to her that she's the one running this place: everyone knows her, everyone asks her for advice or assistance, everyone compliments her when the soup is delicious. She is so in demand, in fact, that I am served before I manage to go "Hi, where's Demyx?" and find myself directed to the back of the shop. Beyond the kitchen, it turns out, there is a whole corridor of rooms, not all of which have open doors. "His room's upstairs. He has a sign," says Aqua right before she's gone again into her throngs of people.
I pull my shoes off and add them to the pile at the bottom of the stairs then creep skywards. More corridors, and more rooms. Does Aqua also run a hostel service or something? What kind of a superwoman is she?
Demyx's room is easy to find: it's the one that has a huge and over-decorated piece of paper taped to the door that says "DEMYX". It makes me smile, and also makes me sad. I remember having a sign on my bedroom door, in all of those care homes I used to live in, signs that were vandalised and ripped down and replaced on a weekly basis. Eventually I gave up, the upshot of which was that I lived in a room labelled "Fannyboy" for three weeks before one of the social workers noticed and took the sign down.
Loud music is eminating from Demyx's room, so much so that I have to knock pretty loudly for him to hear me. The music stops and Demyx, guitar in his hands, opens the door.
"Oh, Marly! Hey there!"
"That's Marluxia," I correct. I don't like the nickname "Marly", even though everyone uses it anyway. It sounds like something you'd call a dog, and I have been compared to a dog too many times in my life to be okay with that. And just like everyone else, Demyx just laughs as he lets me in to his mess of a room, saying "I see you got souped up downstairs there." He's going to keep calling me Marly. I just know it.
I find myself sitting on Demyx's bed as he packs up his guitar. "I'm going to be in a band one day," he says dreamily as he turns off the aplifier. "I'm going to be famous, and half the munny I make I'll give back to Aqua. Hey, can I hold your baby?"
"What's her deal?" I ask, gladly handing Larxene over to reach for Demyx's heavily gelled hair again. She must like the taste, because the first thing she does to the lock that she grabs is put it in her mouth. "She's feeding half of Hollow Bastion down there."
"She's not from around here," Demyx says thoughtuflly. Every few words are interrupted with an "oochy goochy goo" directed at Larxene. She seems to enjoy the attention. "She went to university, I think, but then one day she decided that she wanted to do something more with her life. So she started the soup kitchen with the money she inherited from her parents. I think she could do anything if she put her mind to it, really. She's just one of those kinds of people." Demyx sighs, extracting Larxene from his hair. "I'm kind of jealous, actually. I don't know how she does it."
I almost ask about Demyx's past, too, but then I think about his sudden sadness when he talked about the mysterious "attack", and the probability that he will ask about my history, which I'm not ready to divulge yet - so I curb my curiosity, instead simply agreeing with him. We fall silent - at least, as silent as any room with Larxene in it can be. Below us I can still hear the hustle and bustle of the soup kitchen.
"So what do you do?" I ask eventually. Demyx glances at me.
"Schoolwork, mostly. But I go out busking for Aqua at the weekends sometimes. Odd jobs. I'm a jack of all trades, me. What about you?"
I had forgotten about school. They seem like such a far-off dream now, memories of yawning in the back of classrooms when I even bothered to turn up at all. The only times I've ever thought about school since have been when trying to add up grocery prices in my head, or attempting (and failing) to nagivate the minefield that is bank accounts. Why didn't they teach us anything useful at school? Maths was all about triangles and equations named after Greeks, rather than working out whether or not fifty munny is going to cover the food you need for the weekend (hint: it doesn't). No English teacher ever taught me how to write a job application or successfully navigate the minefield that is interviews.
"I work in the supermarket," I say. "Exciting, I know."
Demyx flops down on the bed with Larxene, so she can drag herself across his chest and play with his nose. "Hey, you got any toys in that bag of yours? Anything to stop Larxene pulling my face off."
I hand over the crinkly cat, Larxene's favourite toy in the whole world this month. Sure enough, it distracts her from Demyx long enough for him to pick her up and plonk her on the bed between us. "She's still cute, though," he says. "Just like her Dad." I almost think that this is a come on, ialmost/i, but Demyx makes this remark so off-handedly that tendrils of doubt creep into my head. It sounds like something he'd say to anyone.
So I just say "thanks" in a sardonic voice. Demyx laughs at me, but he doesn't even glance my way, so I really do think he just meant it lightly. Besides, I'm not even cute any more. I used to be when I was well fed and slept for nine hours a day, but that's as distant a dream as school.
"So how old are you?" Demyx asks, playing with Larxene and tha cat. He's blowing her mind by hiding it under his duvet and then squeezing it so she can hear the scrunchy sound but can't see the cat. I smile at this display, storing the trick in the back of my mind to try at home.
"Sixteen," I reply. This time, Demyx glances up at me in surprise, like he expected me to be older. "Yeah, yeah, I know. What about you?"
He goes back to amazing Larxene. "Year older," he says; "And I haven't even got laid yet."
"It's not all it's cut out to be," I lie. How could I know? But from what other people have said to me over the years, I think it's probably overrated. Especially compared to porn.
"Are you still with her?" Demyx asks. He stops hiding the cat, instead holding its back with his two forefingers either side of its neck, so he can make its head wiggle in a funny display of impromptu puppetry. "Meow, meow!" He coos. "I'm Demyx the cat, and I'm going to eat you!" He bounces the cat towards Larxene and away from her again, tantalisingly dancing it just out of her reach.
"We weren't ever together." Of course this is fabricated. I've never even looked at a girl and wondered what she might be like in bed. Once when I was little I made a huge deal about having a crush on the biggest tomboy in the school, but that was mostly because she acted just like a boy anyway, and I wanted just to fit in. "It was a one night thing."
"Oh," says Demyx. And then: "Next time, use condoms."
"I don't think that will be a problem," I say enigmatically. What I really mean is that condoms wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference anyway, but I'd like Demyx to take it to mean that "next time" I have sex I thoroughly expect it to be with someone I can't impregnate. But he just laughs in exactly the same way, so I don't even know if he read between the lines at all. Oh, well. I have plenty of time left to work out whether this guy is elegible or not.
I lie down on the bed too, thinking about time. The familiar pit of dread opens up again in my stomach when I think about how Larxene came to be and how it's going to happen again one day. I'll have to move to a new town, pretend to be a girl again…when is it going to end? How many children am I going to end up with? Larxene was one thing: I was scared and alone and hormonal, and all I ever thought about was getting through the day without killing the thing inside me. But I can't do all of that again. Next time it happens I have to go to the hospital. I have to. I'll go insane if I have to do that all over again.
I return to Demyx's room in a daze, terrified again. I try to stamp it all out from my mind, thinking desperately about other things. I look at Larxene, resting in the crook of Demyx's elbow now, occasionally making the odd experimental sound. Nothing game-changing; she's still working out how to make noises. Demyx is copying her, going "Aaah, aaah, aah" whenever she does in a sing-song tone. Then he says "Hey, let's sing a song," And begins to trill a simple melody over and over again. Larxene laughs with joy, patting his face every time he stops so he will sing it again. Then suddenly she hits his face and he stays silent, which makes her wail until he sings the tune again.
"She'll have you there all day," I warn, pretending that I'm not entranced. He's better at keeping Larxene happy than I am. Everybody is, even Evil Babysitter. I guess I'm just not father material.
"That's okay," Demyx says, moving away, which makes Larxene wave her arms desperately in his direction, wanting more singing. "Apparently babies really like music. Then again, who doesn't?"
"Yeah, she's got this rattle," I say, wishing I'd taken it with her to the babysitter so Demyx could see how Larxene shakes it to a rhythmn (well, what sounds like one to me, a somewhat biased parent), but I normally leave it at home now because "it upsets the other children".
"You play an instrument?"
"I can't even sing," I admit. "I mean, I sing lullabies to Larxene, but she doesn't like them as much as she likes yours."
"Aw, don't say that," Demyx says diplomatically. "I bet you have a great voice." He's doing it again, probably complimenting me without even realising it. I feel myself blushing all over again as he goes back to pleasing Larxene with his little melodies.
I close my eyes as he decides to get his accoustic guitar and starts twanging on the strings to Larxene's renewed delight. He seems so carefree. I wonder what it's like. Still at school, playing on his guitar in his free time, never having to worry about money or shelter or children. I feel a hot pang of jealousy, just like when I see kids my age spilling drinks and candies out onto shop counters, or laughing amongst themselves at jokes I won't ever understand. I just want life to be simple like it used to be. I want to have family that supports me, rather than a baby whose life I will screw over if I don't get every step right. But hot agony flares in my stomach whenever I entertain the thought of giving up Larxene. I don't know what I want. I want too many things that contradict themselves. Maybe it's just the life-changing decisions that I don't want to make.
"Hey, Mar," Demyx says suddenly, and I realise that I've fallen into a sort of half-sleep. I shake myself awake, blinking away drowsiness. "I think Larxene wants a drink."
"She's not even crying," I say tiredly, wondering what the time is. I could only have dozed off for a few seconds, but it's disorientated me. I glance over at Larxene: okay, she's not crying yet, but she's close. So I pull out a carton of pre-sterilised milk (after the last incident I've always made sure to carry supplies around with her, just in case I'm held up somewhere) and pour it into her bottle. Demyx seems happy enough to feed her even when she dribbles milk all over his fingers and stains his shirt.
"I want to have kids one day," he says, holding Larxene close to his chest. "But I'm gonna adopt them. People say stuff like it would be really hard to explain why your kids' parents didn't want them, but I don't think so. It's harder when they ask why nobody wanted them, right?"
I wonder if I should tell them exactly how hard it is. I remember the sweating palms and sad eyes of the social workers who tried to explain to me why nobody wanted me, and at least they had a reason that time. But again, I keep quiet about my past, just nodding in agreement. "That's very noble of you."
"Haha, yeah. I think I'd make a great Dad, too. I'd get all my kids to follow their dreams and whatever they wanted to be, they'd be the best at it. That's what Aqua says. She doesn't mind if you want to be an acocuntant or a guitarist or an author or a builder, just as long as you try your hardest. Hey, what do you want to do when you grow up?"
"I don't know," I admit. "I'm not good at anything useful." I've never known what I wanted to be. I've never really thought about it. I guess by the time I was old enough to plan my future, I just assumed that I'd end up in a gutter before I ever got there.
"I bet you are. What do you like?"
"Not much." Right now it seems lame to say I like gardening. And anyway, what could I do with a skill like that? Helping Mr Wise out with his projects was one thing, but I couldn't do it for money. And if you can't do something for money, then it's useless. But Demyx is having none of that. He laughs and pushes my shoulder and goes "No, seriously, what do you like?"
"I don't have time to like things," I say irritably, "I have a baby to look after." We both look at Larxene, drinking messily and hiccoughing as she does so. "She kind of occupies every second of my waking thoughts."
Demyx pauses, still looking at Larxene even when I glance away, feeling angry. It bothers me that people think that babies are so cute and loveable. Yes, they are, but they're also exhausting and consuming and selfish, and nobody considers that when they dote on Larxene.
"Sorry," Demyx says finally. "I was only asking." But it's a stupid apology, and I don't like it. I wish people would understand how much of a sacrifice I'm making for her. I'm not even me, Marluxia Braefern, any more: I'm just Larxene's Dad. I know I didn't have hopes and aspirations before, but it's different now because I can't. I don't want to hang around with carefree Demyx and his melodies and his guitar any more. I want to go home and sulk.
"I should probably go ask if Aqua needs any help downstairs," Demyx mutters after a long silence.
"Yeah, I need to go home."
Demyx gives back Larxene and the bottle. I wrestle her back into her coat and shove her hat on over her head. "Where do you live?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious, but I don't reply. On the way downstairs he says "You can still come visit whenever you want. If I'm not home you can just hang out in my room until I get back. I'll tell Aqua that's okay."
He doesn't realise that I would always like to hang out in his room, because it's warm and comfortable and full of life, unlike my pitiful excuse for a home where I have to wear gloves indoors to stop my fingernails turning blue. He takes it all for granted, just like everybody else. So I just say "Yeah, okay," without looking at him and make my way back out through the customers, this time managing not to receive a cup of soup. Outside it's snowing in thick, heavy slurries. "Going to be a white Christmas," I tell Larxene as she tucks her face into my neck, disliking the cold snowflakes landing on my face. I haven't lived far enough north for it to snow on Christmas before. In another time and place, that would have excited me, but as it is I just trudge home through the collecting mounds of almost-snow on the pavelemt, worrying about whether it'll freeze into black ice overnight. Maybe I can stay at home tomorrow, playing games with Larxene and not worrying about getting out.